


Hungry Eyes and a Blade of Steel

by December



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - Fandom, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/December/pseuds/December
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Returning home unexpected on a rainy night, Éowyn gets an eyeful of the one thing she would have never imagined. Jealousy, hurt, curiosity or something else — which will have the top say in her?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "6th Anniversary Challenge: Éowyn" at FaramirFiction by iris.  
> Original challenge here: http://www.faramirfiction.com/challenges/6th-anniversary-challenge-eowyn
> 
> Disclaimer: Not mine (although I'm not entirely certain the rightful owners would want to have any dealings with the characters of this work either, given the state said characters get themselves into as the story unfolds…).
> 
> Thanks to Chloé for the beta!
> 
> Everything (except the obvious) is based on Book canon.
> 
> Er, the original challenge spoke of a PWP kind of thing… Now, I would not go as far as to claim this story actually has a Plot, but it is certainly turning out a little longer than a work entirely devoid of one would be expected to. In any case, I very dearly hope you enjoy.
> 
> And, of course, feedback is tremendously appreciated (man, this is my first go at het, and it was tough…), and will be answered.

‘Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

Men were deceivers ever,

One foot in sea, and one on shore,

To one thing constant never.

Then sigh not so, but let them go,

And be you blithe and bonny,

Converting all your sounds of woe

Into hey nonny nonny.’

 

William Shakespeare

 

 

Éowyn never minded getting a bit dirty.

And now, dripping wet, boots squelching in the mud pooling all over the rutted narrow forest path as she led her equally soaked mare by the bridle, she was in exceptionally high spirits. The grime merely made her look forward to the comforts of their Ithilien estate, namely a good bath, a plate of warm food and… well, some other things afterwards.

She could have, of course, stayed for the night at the village. That was what everyone must have expected of her, given the horrible chilly downpour and an almost complete lack of visibility. Nay, she wanted to be home _tonight_ , and if it came as a little surprise for a certain someone, all the better.

It was well past eleven by the time the two of them finally made it. The whole household was already asleep, at least judging by the dark windows on the side of the building adjacent to the stables.

Given what an early riser Faramir was, he would probably have long since gone to bed as well. What a shame though, she would have definitely liked to have him awake now – or at least to have a certain part of him awake. A long day of riding always did that to her. She was unreasonably fit for a lady of court, and no amount of hours in the saddle could tire her out, only succeeding at filling all her muscles (and especially those in her lower body) with a pleasant awareness. Besides, having felt a strong hot animal between her thighs all day, she would not have minded feeling another kind of strength and heat there as well.

Oh well, if he was asleep, maybe she could wait till morning, she was a sweet obedient wife, after all. Well, _most_ of the time she was… Sometimes. On certain rare occasions. Whatever.

All the more, she ought not to wake him.

Éowyn unsaddled her mate, wiped her down, checked the horse had everything for a comfortable rest, and wished her good night – then finally entered her home, intent on grabbing a morsel in the kitchens, taking a quick shower and heading straight for her own bed. If she did not get to have the one thing she really wanted, she could do without the foamy bath as well.

But as she rubbed her back with the rough washcloth, scrubbing all the horse smell out of her skin, suddenly she remembered what she had witnessed earlier that day. In line with her interest in healing, she often went to the village to help the ailing, but this time it had not been exactly an illness. She shuddered lightly as she recalled the thick heavy redolence of blood – the smell she had come to associate with death, but which could be a herald of life as well. Life brutally forcing itself through the woman’s body, spreading and splitting her flesh, making her pant, and scream, and growl – how horrifying it had looked, how beastly it had sounded… Yet there had also been a staggering, grim beauty to it, a merciless, primeval splendour.

As Éowyn passed the midwife yet more towels, the aged woman had winked at her. “And men think they know what gore is, huh, yer ladyship?”

She had smiled in return, and it was then that for the first time she consciously knew she wanted this to happen to her, too. To let nature work its course on her, have its way with her, fill and stretch her body beyond belief – to reduce her to her animal essence, make her suffer, so that in the end there could be glory and new meaning to _everything_.

And she knew she wanted it to begin this very night, to have her husband set this irreversible, unstoppable force in motion.

Yes, this night would be perfect. Éowyn grinned mischievously, for their royal visitor’s guest bedroom was only two doors down the corridor from Faramir’s, and perhaps, if she took the trouble to scream loud enough, _he_ would hear.

No, she was definitely in no mood for being a nice unassuming wife.

Éowyn wrung the water from her waist-long tresses and arranged them into a towel-wrap on her head – a habit Faramir found endearingly silly, though he always prudently refrained from telling her as much. She went to the upper floor where all the bedrooms were, and first headed for her wardrobe. Yes, the Shieldmaiden of Rohan had a whole room for a wardrobe now…

Fishing in one of the drawers, she smiled. If after all she was going to rob her unsuspecting spouse of sleep, she may as well do it in style.

She took out a matching set of powder-blue silk camisole and short bloomers. At the beginning of their marriage, she had felt a little foolish wearing all such satins and laces, but seeing the effect it had on Faramir had made her change her mind. He had a thing for lingerie, her husband did. Although the way he usually treated said lingerie resulted in it having become a rather tangible expense for their household.

A pleasant shiver of anticipation ran through Éowyn’s body as she imagined the exquisite fabric mercilessly ripped off her…

Nay, there was no way she would leave him in peace now.

And it did not bother her that her damp hair had instantly wetted the silk on her back, for soon, very soon she would be relieved of her attire anyway. Faramir was a warrior – it never took him long to wake.

Leaving her wardrobe, she walked through her drawing room and then her bedroom to the small corridor adjoining to his chamber. It was usually _he_ who visited _her_ , and she looked forward to doing it in his room for a change – so different from her plushly decorated boudoir where, as she knew he liked it, she kept everything aromatised with floral sachets. No, there would be no lilacs or roses in his room, only manly scents, above all his own intoxicating fragrance…  

But before she entered the connecting corridor, she paused.

What’s this now?

Narrowing her eyes and tilting her head to the side, she held her breath to hear better. But there was no need for that, as this time the sound came much louder.

Éowyn’s nostrils flared.

There was no mistaking that moan.

Her husband was being pleasured by someone – whom he would obviously bone later, if he had not already.

Éowyn’s hand holding the candle clenched so hard it nearly made the stick snap. Oh, would have she not liked to snap his lecherous cock in the same way…

So she had been right in her suspicions after all. That bitch Éolinda, her cousin thrice-removed she had brought to Ithilien as a maid of honour – she had got what she wanted at last. Éowyn should have put a stop to it long ago, had she not noticed all those looks the girl had been giving her man? But Faramir had only laughed at her heated concerns, assuring her he was not interested in the slightest and that Éolinda was simply wasting her best years trying to charm a married man. He would never burn for another woman, he had said.

She gritted her teeth. What an idiot she had been. A gullible, blind idiot.

‘Certainly, my love, go have a jolly good time, take as long as you like. Oh, of course I shall miss you, but don’t I know how you enjoy those riding trips of yours.’

Ooh, she would show them.

Swiftly but quietly she returned to the lower floor to retrieve her sword she had left in the small ammunition room. She always took it along when riding alone, just in case, but never had she thought it would come in handy in her own home. Oh, well…

First, she decided, she would hack off that whore’s ridiculously long hair, hack it off at the very scalp, so that _everyone_ would see Éolinda’s disgrace for months to come. And then –

What exactly could she do then, really?

She forbade herself to think of it, for to do so would only immerse her in anger at her own powerlessness. Marriage consisted for a great part of rights and responsibilities: the rights were mostly his, the responsibilities hers. A woman was effectively her husband’s property – it did not work the other way around, though. Adultery was a female word. A woman was an adulteress, a loose worthless slut, one whom her husband could indeed punish according to his design, until his thirst for justice was slaked.

But a man… A man simply played around. Of course, officially it was disapproved of and shaken heads at, but the unspoken law had it that as long as he put bread on the table, he could do pretty much whatever he pleased. And the wives of such men would only sigh and then dismiss it with a shrug: well, what do you want, they are all like that, no use smashing your best porcelain set over it.

Éowyn used to look down upon such women and pity them, and even more those who were actually unaware of being cheated on. It would never happen to her, of course – Faramir was different. Faramir loved her.

She swallowed hard, and suddenly went cold: to think of it, she had nothing on him, really. He would likely claim he still loved her, and this here was just a thing of the flesh – she had heard this was a popular line. And she would not even be able to call him an oath-breaker, for, as she recalled now, their troth had included no words on not sharing their bodies with another but the rightful spouse. She had not given it much thought then, assuming it was too obvious to even be mentioned.

And she knew who wore the pants in the house. Yes, she got away with all her cheek, bossiness and general stubbornness – because _he_ found all of it amusing, endearing and even somewhat arousing, and thus allowed it. Allowed it as long as it was done within reasonable limits – she sensed he would put her jolly well back in her place should she forget herself. And, little doubt, a woman coming to her husband brandishing a sword would be seen as something entirely over the line…

To think of it, what a sight she must be! Lacy underwear, wet hair and an unsheathed blade in her hand. Scorching tears of shame and anger clouded her vision, but she blinked them back. She would not come to him all weepy. She would face it with dignity, if dignity was all she had left.

Yes, she was trapped. She would be expected to just deal with it, grin and bear it. Women always did – what choice did they have? There was no power by which to unbind the bond that had tied them to their husbands. A marriage is forever.

 _Well, forever just might end tonight_ , she thought grimly, her hands trembling faintly as she ran her fingers over the weapon. She did not know what she was going to do – but she knew that as soon as her heart came to a decision – whatever it be – she would not restrain herself.

She had sworn to herself that never would she allow a man to humiliate her again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

This time as Éowyn approached the door to the adjoining corridor, she blew the candle out, lest the door on Faramir’s side should be open and they see the light. She wanted to have the full surprise effect – she had to get at least some enjoyment out of it.

She was no wild cat, and no Ranger, but she could walk quietly enough when she wanted to, and judging by the sounds coming from the other side, they would be too engrossed to hear her anyway.

But it turned out they would not have seen the flame of her candle had she brought it along, for although the door was indeed a tiny bit ajar, the room itself was lit quite well, the hearth being obviously ablaze.

And she realised she wanted to see first. To see what this shameless slut had to offer that the rightful wife did not have.

Biting her lip, she leant in to bring her eye to the door crack – then shuddered and looked away at once.

Not that she had been able to see much, but she had seen enough.

The bed stood facing the door, and they were right in the middle of the sheets, so all she could get was the vision of a strong muscular back and behind. He was leaning low over his lover, keeping knees wide apart yet his feet almost together, moving slowly and thoroughly, not so much thrusting as rather rolling forth with his hips, each forward motion accompanied by a low heavy moan. The only part of the other party she had been able to see was a pair of legs wrapped snugly around his waist.

 _So they like it deep: wide open and intimate,_ she thought, a dangerous glare appearing in her eyes.

But then –

Something at the back of her head was screaming wildly, distracting her from her wrath, and she leant in for a second look.

By all the horses of the Mark, those legs around his back… Strong muscular shins with dark _hair,_ and feet none too small or feminine…

She nearly dropped her sword in astonishment and grabbed the doorframe with her other hand for support.

He was cheating on her with a _man_.

And she had thought she knew him…

But although it was all quite bewildering, even frightening, making her head spin slightly and the floor sway under her bare feet, Éowyn felt like laughing out in relief – and she closed her eyes and rested her temple against the smooth wood, trying to digest this new truth about her husband. He was sleeping with someone else, yes, it was infidelity all the same, yet… Well, somehow it felt a little silly to be jealous because of another man. This strange, unheard-of passion was no doubt quite different from what he had with her, not something he could ever find in her arms, and maybe…

“Ohhh, yhheeaas… Aaaragohhrn…” came a muffled but fully coherent assertion of pleasure.

This time she had almost dropped the sword for real. What the…!!!

And then it hit her. The back she had seen was not Faramir’s.

Ah, she was being so slow. She should have known it all from the start. Had he no shame?! Had neither of them any shame?! Did not they both know how she… that it… that she still, sometimes… Why on Arda did they have to have chosen one another of all the possible options?!

Yes, she should indeed storm in with her sword raised, if only to scare the crap out of the two of them and ruin their little picnic – they deserved that much at least. Yes, she was going to do that right now, right this very second.

Although…

For some reason she found herself hesitating.

Maybe…

In a way…

Ah, she could find a better way to make them pay. She had nowhere to rush to – and she needed to think it over.

She considered returning to her room – what was the use of standing here like an idiot? But no, to leave now seemed somehow akin to acknowledging defeat. So she stayed, and only moved to lean back against the cool stone wall of the dark corridor, shutting her eyes and breathing out slowly. _Calm down and think, and try not to listen._

Aragorn (she got used to addressing him and referring to him as ‘Lord Aragorn’, ‘His Royal Majesty’ and ‘King Elessar’, but in her thought he was always just Aragorn) had been admittedly surprised the previous time he had found her entirely not where he had expected her to be… She grinned broadly, visualising the expression on his face tomorrow, when she would descend early for breakfast and to their puzzled questions would reply that no, she had not arrived at six in the morning. No, she would smile pleasantly and inform them she had been home from late the previous evening, but had decided to avoid disturbing her lords in their _rest_ and wait till morning to let them know she was safely back. She would be all courtesy and politeness (she would even wear a flowery dress), and they would go pale in the face, wondering if it was possible she had not heard anything.

She would torment them mercilessly, making ambiguous remarks in a perfectly innocent voice, asking the King whether his room had been to his liking or if perhaps he would have preferred to spend the night in another bed – in another bed _chamber_ , that is. And she would suggest they all go for a ride in the woods – but then as though catch herself and ask her husband if he perhaps did not feel like getting in the saddle and would rather they went on foot. And if she saw that later tonight Aragorn would take out his pipe, tomorrow at breakfast she would get up to come and snake her arms around Faramir’s neck as though in a spontaneous expression of affection – but would draw back and look at him with teasing reproach, and tell him his hair smelled faintly of pipe-weed – was he smoking secretly from her? Then she would look at Aragorn with as much playfulness as the position of his steward’s wife allowed, and tell him he was utterly spoiling her husband with his Northern ways.

But Éowyn wondered also, if two could play at this game, if Aragorn would merely look at her with twinkling eyes and say, “Ah, my lady, but your husband does enjoy being spoilt.” Faramir, perhaps, would go crimson to the hairline, and drop his toast on his lap and get butter all over his trousers – but _that_ was not the point.

She would feel like a complete idiot, not only cheated over, but ridiculed – _this_ was the point.

Or maybe her husband would not drop his toast, maybe he would turn grave, and take her by the hand, and declare he had long since tried to gather courage to tell her he utterly and completely loved the King. That it was meant to be, it was destiny, and nothing to do about it.

She felt her grip on her sword tightening again. Fortunately, however, Faramir’s moans were distracting her from her musings…

She breathed out heavily. She had enough hold on herself to actually understand she was in no state for coming up with clever strategies of revenge. Her mind was shocked and muddled, her heart hurt with offense and indignation, and the rest of her body…

Yes, whatever her reasoning and morals were telling her, however she might loathe those two for what they were doing – the more primeval side of her could not fail to react to what was happening behind that door.

She had to admit there was something to the very concept – almost like a certain kind of beauty. And in their particular case, there was quite a _lot_ of beauty, actually – and a generous measure of hotness, too. This hotness she could feel resonating through her own body as images of all the things her lords could do to each other rushed through her mind – and suddenly she remembered she was still wearing that fine-spun underwear and, most importantly, remembered the reason she had put it on in the first place.

Lust. Lust was bothering her to think clearly. Well, she would have to get rid of the lust then…

Ah, it was such a mad night already, what with this horrible rain, and her running around with a sword in a fit of jealousy, and the King bedding her man – and obviously doing it quite well, too… Why should she not add to it a little madness of her own? Not that there was any likelihood she would ever again find herself in a similar situation anyway.

She smiled, a smile half of mischief, half of embarrassment. Nay, wait – _she_ of all people had nothing to be embarrassed of. So she lowered her sword and brought her face to the strip of light once more.

And now that she looked on not to kindle her jealousy and wrath, but to try and understand the nature of this attraction between them, to feel the result of combining the sexual energy of two men – now that she looked on to enjoy the sight, she saw that it all was beautiful indeed, and so twistedly, wickedly wonderful. 

She had always been fascinated by and drawn to power, strength and even, in a certain sense, brutality. And what could be a better epitome of it all than two beautifully made mighty lords getting it on with each other…?

As she watched, Aragorn’s unfaltering rhythm began to hypnotise her just as much as she believed it must be hypnotising Faramir, and for a moment it seemed to her she would be content to merely observe their play.

But Éowyn felt, too, along with wonder, excitement and curiosity, a familiar pang of envy and resentment, the exact same combination she had so often experienced in the past, when the men of the Mark (and on one occasion a certain man of the North) would gather to go and do some big important manly thing, and tell her to stay home and mind her female business. To put it shortly, she felt excluded – unjustly.

She was not the sort of woman to put up with being excluded – and this time least of all. And somehow this indignation of hers increased the fire in her blood, and although it did seem a little deprived to be deriving pleasure from witnessing her husband cheating on her, she thought, oh well – and as though off its own accord, her palm began to thoughtfully caress her belly below the navel.

Really, why not…?

But she knew that if she was to benefit from their little enjoyment as well, she ought to make haste, for the two of them were picking up speed, and Faramir’s moans had become much more heartfelt.

Aragorn had raised himself up a little to be able to increase the amplitude and intensity of his thrusts, letting her see his strong lean shoulders – every muscle in them working – and the back of his straining neck, the man’s long dark hair parting at the nape. His head was bowed low, and she wondered about the expression on his face. And then Faramir… she would have paid dearly to see him now as well. Apparently it would have been a compelling sight, given he had thrown his arms over Aragorn’s back, fingers desperately digging into the older man’s shoulders. Faramir was either trying to pull Aragorn down again to kiss him, or to give himself leverage to hump back at the King’s pounding hips – which it was, she could not tell. But he gave up on it soon enough anyway, gripping his royal lover on the backside instead, and pushing down on it with all his strength, as though Aragorn was not deep enough as it was.

Éowyn knew she would not make it like this. They had had such a head start on her… She decided to drop all preambles and get to the point. That whole day, what with what she had seen at the village, and all her riding, and thinking of Faramir had had her ready to become aroused. And now this little unexpected show – surely she was ready for the final dash?

Usually, she liked to start slowly, with light caresses on the lower abdomen and upper thighs, to have her flesh fill with deep heat, to have it yearn for touch, to prepare for a profound release. Not this time – she had to hurry.

And she set to it with determination, not averting her gaze from the men for a moment as she stuck her left hand down the waist-band of her bloomers. At once her index finger sought out the very point of her pleasure, right at the top of her feminine entrance. This area had to be treated with care, gently stroked to blood-swollen fullness, tickled and teased at the base and the sides, where the sensations were so very diverse. She had no time for that – she could hear Faramir almost weeping by then, the grip of his hands no doubt bound to leave bruises on the King’s buttocks. So she placed the pad of her finger on the very tip of her outer sex, this spot that was always sensitive, even when she was simply washing herself in the morning – and she went to stimulate in insistently, not so much rubbing over it, but massaging with fast vibrating moves, so that her flesh positively fluttered under her finger.

It brought the result in about a minute, like it sometimes did. A quick spasm gripped her thighs and pelvis, and her breath caught as a spark of pleasure skipped through her.

That was it.

She winced in frustration. She had just ruined it.

Treating herself thus had only resulted in merely skimming the cream, in breaking off the tip of her desire. This release, if it could even be referred to as such, had done nothing to slake her need (or to appease her spite, for that matter) – quite on the contrary, in fact. Her passion had retreated deeper into her body to prepare for a big and serious climax.

But a big and serious climax would require far more than a few minutes of hasty fondling.

Desperately, she tried to keep going. But it was no use, the extreme sensitivity of her flesh was gone for the time being, and would have to be patiently coaxed back to the surface. This would take _time_.

Time that she did not have.

Yes, she could tell they were going for the prize now, Aragorn’s pace having become frantic and desperate, and his breathing likewise, whereas Faramir did not seem to be breathing at all, his throat too busy voicing pleasure.

It was contagious, that pleasure, and witnessing it heightened her own sensations, making her hope that perhaps she could –

Letting out a deep feral growl, Aragorn slammed into Faramir with such savage force as though with this last stab he actually wanted to pierce the man through – and Faramir echoed the King’s release with his own none too comely cry of rapture.

And then they slumped down, Faramir’s legs still keeping a limp embrace around Aragorn’s back. The men lay absolutely still, as though their synchronised climax had paralysed them both – or, which seemed more likely, knocked them out altogether.

Éowyn had nearly groaned, managing to hold it back at the last second. They had left her out, after all…

But, once more telling herself she had nowhere to hurry to, she withdrew her hand from between her legs and steadied her breath. Knowing her husband, once he was at it, there was no stopping him till the small hours – or perhaps even later, if the going was good.

She would only have to wait.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Previously in 'Hungry Eyes and a Blade of Steel'_
> 
> After discovering that Faramir, instead of missing her, is entertaining himself with Aragorn, Éowyn is so torn by contradictory emotions that by the time she decides to use the situation to her benefit, the men are far ahead of her on the road to completion. Although she strives to catch up, the Steward and the King leave her behind as they find the ultimate pleasure in each other's arms. Her need is unsatisfied, as is her spite.
> 
> Éowyn, however, tells herself to calm down, being certain the men are not done for the night. She would only have to wait.

And wait she did, getting impatient by the minute.

 

For what seemed like eternity, Aragorn and Faramir lay on their sides, wrapped in a lazy sated embrace, caressing each other with habitual fondness, murmuring in low voices some gentle words Éowyn could not discern. Watching them like this was making her begin to seethe all over again, despite all her resolve to the contrary. So cosy and sweet they appeared, so accustomed to each other…

 

Yes, she had done right to stay her wrath and watch – had she stormed in on them, she might have never come to learn there was more than lust and carnal pleasures between them. Not that she was made happier for the knowledge, yet Éowyn was raised among men of war, and the few recent years of peace had not made her forget that blissful ignorance was a state to be avoided at all costs, no matter how painful be the truth.

 

Dwelling on the subject of truth, she wondered whether her husband had, in fact, lain with his king before lying with her – and she did not like the notion at all...

 

One way or another, this particular night was, without question, not their first – nor was Aragorn forcing her man into this liaison by the power of his royal authority: it was quite ostensible that Faramir was more than willing, more than comfortable with their intimacy. Both of them were fully aware of what they were doing, and they were doing it deliberately, purposefully. No, much as the infamous blinding desires of the flesh were believed to hold men under an unbreakable sway, muting out all protests of conscience and reason, with Aragorn and Faramir it was not the case – or, perhaps, it had been, in the beginning, but it was more than obvious that since then the two had fully embraced their passion... And Faramir had never told her, never even hinted at it. Was it that he did not trust she would react adequately, or was it simply that he wanted to keep her out of it, that he considered it his _private_ life…?

 

No, no, and no. All that she would address later, all that she would think about later. For now, she was intent on getting her dividends – as soon as the men would oblige…

 

The heaviness of her long sword was getting increasingly annoying. Éowyn was loathe to return to her room to leave it there, for some reason quite confident that this time they would hear her as much as make a step. She was afraid to lean the blade against the wall either, lest it should slip and fall with an unforgivably loud sound – not to mention the silly illogical reassurance she found in holding the sharpened steel. So eventually Éowyn only dared lower its point to the floor, thus not only relieving her muscles, but actually being able to rest her own weight on the weapon.

 

However, there was another unignorable source of irritation, one she could do nothing to alleviate.

 

The last month of spring had already begun, and by day, especially out in the sun, it felt more like summer – but at nighttime in a bare stone corridor it was far from pleasant, and all the more so for someone unshod and attired in naught but nonexistent lingerie. The air coming through the door crack told Éowyn the men had a mellow warmth to bask in, what with the hearth having been ablaze for quite a few hours now – yet little of it passed out into her dark corner.

 

Her hair was still damp, and she was beginning to shiver. Her nipples had contracted so much, she was beginning to feel a tingling ache in them…

 

Éowyn told herself to stay calm. She understood that to have her anger work itself up again would bring her no benefit, only the opposite. If she wanted to enjoy herself, she had to be in the appropriate mood. The lashing merciless downpour she had recently had to endure had hardly bothered her, so why should she mind a little chill? She knew why, of course: the rain, being a force of nature, was neither in any way susceptible of her control, nor had anything against her personally – after all, it had been her own voluntary decision to ride out despite the weather, so, if anything, she had only herself to blame.

 

But this discomfort she had to put up with now was not some unavoidable misfortune, nor an inconvenience she had brought upon herself – had it not been for the King in her man’s bed, it was she who would have now been snuggling to Faramir’s powerfully sculpted chest, his arms around her, his fingers idly twirling her loose tresses. She would have been languid and happy, without a care in the world.

 

Instead, here she was, betrayed, outmatched, hurt and indignant, not to mention deprived and pathetic in her eagerness to watch another person make love to her husband – and, on top of it, she was cold. In comparison to all her other trouble, this last bit ought not to seem like much, yet in that moment it was this physical consequence of Éowyn’s predicament that felt to her the most humiliating, almost an insult in itself, as though Aragorn himself had come and shoved her out of Faramir’s warm bed. Yes, it was the most material, tangible one proof that the catastrophe was real, it was no pretence, no game, no bad dream. There was an unnerving hopeless finality to this cold, a bitterness impossible to deny or ignore: the rain Éowyn had only grinned at, thinking its chill would soon be compensated tenfold by the heat of Faramir’s passionate embrace, whereas this cold now seemed to symbolise her whole future existence, that of a woman firmly locked in a cage of deceitful marriage…

 

Éowyn made a conscious effort to slow her breathing down, to shove the resentful thoughts to the back of her mind. She had chosen this particular course of action over the other possible (albeit rather questionable) options, and she was going to carry it through.

 

She would stand and wait – patiently, nursing her wounded self-respect and pride on her own patience, on her level-headedness, on her ability to keep herself together in such unforeseen drastic circumstances. Mastering her current irritation was merely part of the challenge, naught more. When she had first realised it was a man in Faramir’s bed, had she not told herself it was not that bad, it was something curious and exotic, something she could actually enjoy in some way? She had – and she was going to stick to the thought until act two of the performance would begin, and then she would forget about her worries for a time.

 

Yes, she would wait, calm and unfazed like a mature dignified woman of her station ought to – then she would find a little solace in what came next, soothing both her body and her nerves, and after that she would get in bed to think it all through without hurry and get some sleep before morning comes…

  

Éowyn smiled to herself drily and directed all her attention at the two lords in the next room, not wishing to miss the reawakening of their fire.

 

***

 

Ah, finally.

 

Éowyn could sense the change in the air even from her hiding place. The men were still holding each other almost peacefully, but, judging by the way their heads and shoulders were moving, their kiss was no longer lazy or leisured. Then Faramir slung his leg over Aragorn’s hip, and with a soft murmur of amusement the King rolled them over to reassume his position atop his steward.

 

So the game was on again.

 

Her spirits lifting at once, Éowyn allowed herself a smile. A pleasant reprieve from all her brooding had arrived at last, and she would make the most of it.

 

She had learnt her lesson, though. She would be sensible about it, starting nice and easy, warming up in step with the two of them.

 

As Éowyn softly caressed herself through the thin silk, she observed with amusement how Faramir ventured to once more knead Aragorn’s rump – this time, it seemed to her, quite… well, _disrespectfully_. Aragorn apparently thought as much, for, although giving a good-natured chuckle, he reached behind himself and swatted at the younger man’s hands. The King then murmured something in a low sultry voice, to which Faramir, obediently placing his palms on his lover’s upper back, replied with a delighted laugh, followed by a long passionate kiss.

 

For some time they lay pressing their bodies together, sighing and arching into each other’s touch – and Éowyn stood stroking herself slowly and diligently, firmly resisting the temptation to speed things up. Her thighs, yearning in vain to spread for a man’s strong narrow hips and cradle them with all her rider’s strength, were beginning to needily strain against each other, the muscles in her legs and buttocks flexing to a slow rhythm. Want was gradually and thoroughly building up in her body, and Éowyn smiled yet again. Yes, just like this: she would not lag behind, nor would she rush ahead.

 

“Let me prepare you,” she heard Faramir say. His voice sounded unnervingly casual: he was, indeed, fully at ease with himself, fully accustomed to what they were doing…

 

Yet it was not so much his tone but rather his words that made Éowyn frown. Prepare for what…? Were not they already…?

 

Aragorn, however, had no trouble understanding his lover. Moreover, he seemed to find Faramir’s proposal rather alluring, for he reacted at once. Sitting up swiftly, the King reached for something on the bedside table and, when he passed the object to Faramir, Éowyn saw it to be a clear glass bottle with a pale transparent liquid inside. But she hardly paid any attention to that, for, as Aragorn had turned to the younger man, Éowyn finally got a view of what it was about the King that brought her husband such physical joy. She bit her lip painfully to stifle a shocked exclamation of awe.

 


	4. Chapter 4

Oh, it was not that Aragorn’s manhood was _superior_ to Faramir’s – but, without question, it was different, and in that difference it had astounded Éowyn. Her husband – well, she did not know whether he was made better than most, for she had had naught to compare him to – but he was definitely good enough for her, she had never wished him to be endowed otherwise. And once the strange novelty of a man’s nakedness had worn off for her, Éowyn had grown to even see a certain degree of aesthetical harmony in the way his sex was made, and it no longer seemed grotesque or uncomely to her. In fact, she had become so used to its appearance that she could no longer truly _see_ it – the sight of Faramir’s member in its active mode always caused an according reaction in her own body, yet she had long since stopped paying attention to the actual way it looked. Much as she had long since stopped worrying what view met Faramir’s eyes when she spread her legs before his face.

They had seen and touched each other so many countless times that the other’s body had become to each almost like their own – and she had quite forgotten that sweetly bewildering sensation of ‘oh heavens, this is another person naked before my eyes’.

But the sight of Aragorn in his natural state, unclothed and fully aroused, was swift to reawaken the feeling in her, reminding her of all the delectable details of a man’s physique. Not only reminding, but also surprising her a great measure: Éowyn had somehow assumed that men were made very much alike between the legs, that this particular part of the body bore no markings of one’s individuality, except, perhaps, for a little variation in length. People had different noses, different eyes and different hair – so that other people could tell them apart. But she had thought that the sex was fundamentally a functional thing, like a heart or a liver, and thus did not need the same abundance of shapes, sizes, colours and textures nature displayed when it came to facial features.

She had been wrong.

So very wrong. Aragorn was gorgeous – gorgeous in his own unique, incomparable way. It seemed to Éowyn she could actually see his character reflected in the lines of his cock, as though it had been fashioned to match his personality… And its beauty was only intensified by the fact that Faramir, whose erection was also visible to Éowyn’s eyes, was made so unlike him.

She would have fain liked to be able to get a closer look at the King – keen as her sight was, the hearth and the candles did not illuminate the room all too brightly, and besides, the sheer distance… Lucky Faramir, he had that treasure within the reach of his hand…

And Faramir wasted little time coming to make use of that proximity. He had already opened the bottle and poured a fair amount of oil onto his palm, and now went to spread it all over the King’s manhood. He was touching it lightly and loosely, the main purpose of the action apparently being not bringing pleasure but covering the length in this substance. All the same, the look of his hand, this hand she knew so well, masterfully and shamelessly fisting another man’s engorged cock – Aragorn’s cock… – was enough to have blood rush to Éowyn’s cheeks, and some other places of her body as well, so that her busy fingers felt moisture seep through the thin material of her bloomers.

The wetness brought her back to where she was: for one blissful moment it had seemed to her it was _she_ who was touching Aragorn’s hardness… Yes, she knew with her very skin how it felt to be holding the manhood that would very soon be buried to the hilt in the depths of one’s body. Faramir may have chosen to appear unaffected, to keep a bold and naughty demeanour, yet it was naught but a superficial pretence, naught but a game, for she knew how profoundly shaking the sensation was, each and every time.

The sweet trepidation of the relentless intrusion, trepidation so deep it made one’s knees weak, despite all the previous experience firmly assuring there would be no harm, no pain. The tangible, burning yearning of one’s lower body to accept his masculine might, to open up to it easily and eagerly, to willingly give oneself over… The inebriating sensation of power over him, over this willful fearless man – power by some strange logic deriving precisely from one’s inborn ability to submit to his dominance, to bestow upon him what he so direly needed.

This last notion made Éowyn feel like laughing at herself, for it had never registered with her that men had their own version of this ability, let alone that they could choose to make use of it… Even though she had already witnessed Faramir letting Aragorn master him, the situation on the whole and its broader implications had been too overwhelming to let her pause and dwell on the specific way their bodies had to fit together. Yet now that she saw Aragorn’s erection in Faramir’s grasp, she understood what exactly it was her husband was permitting another man to do to him, although ‘permitting’ was hardly the right word.

He craved this… Just to think of it…

Her breath hitching, she squeezed her hand with her thighs.

Their way of lovemaking, it was so… so decadent, so sumptuously, self-indulgingly depraved… And as she went to visualise in full detail how Aragorn would soon proceed to claim ownership over her husband’s body, a new wave of arousal washed through her, leaving a lasting residue of ache between her legs.

But it also left a residue of perplexed unease in her mind.

Oh, she could perfectly well understand why Aragorn wanted it: it was no divine revelation for her that men liked to fit themselves wherever it felt good for them, even if the particular arrangement did not match nature’s reproductive design (although, admittedly, it had not occurred to her that this particular part of the body could be entered for such purposes – that it could be entered at all). And when it came to taking and taming a man – a tall and strong man, one of high pedigree and even higher authority – of course it had to be done in such a harsh, powerful way. Nothing else would suffice.

Yes, she could fathom what was in it for Aragorn.

But Faramir… Faramir?

Was not a man supposed to ever want only the leading part…? True enough, when spending a night in her bed, he often let her take the initiative, allowing her to set the mood and the pace, as well as choose the position. But she knew that none of those things were of any significance, for they never touched the fundamental allocation of roles between Faramir and her. He took, and she gave – what did it matter who was on top of whom?

But in this kind of couple…

Whichever way, it was bound to unsettle her. And Éowyn could not decide whether it irked her that it was Faramir who yielded to Aragorn like this, thus as though proving that Aragorn was more of a man than him, and therefore would have been a worthier choice – or if, in truth, it would have disturbed her much more had they been doing things the other way around. After all, if Faramir for some reason had a necessity to be taken, to savour another person’s physical supremacy over himself, he could only ever satisfy that need with a man – and that would explain away why he had taken a lover in the first place…

Yes, it was better like this, just the way it was. And what difference did it make _why_ he wanted it, _how_ this desire worked on him, _where_ it came from? He was a man, he was made differently from her, and she would never fully apprehend what moved him anyway. Besides, what he held in his hand, what he wanted so much was such a good, sweet thing – could she truly begrudge him such a perfectly natural desire?

Yes, she knew what it felt like, she hungered for the feeling – and, at least in her current state, she could not scorn him for being subject to the same hunger…

Well, seeing as time had come for such direct contact – and had she not decided to keep pace with them? – Éowyn slipped her hand down her panties to take the playful warm-up to a new level. She felt sumptuously hot and slick to her own fingers, and she briefly slipped into herself to then spread some of her inner moisture over the upper part of her sex. She had decided to withhold from trying to actually pleasure herself from the inside. Not only would it be exasperatingly uncomfortable in her current position, what worse, it would only serve to remind her she had to make do with a feeble substitute of what she would have truly liked to go in there.

That much she had to thank Faramir for: after all, it was he who had showed her this rather no-sweat yet profoundly satisfying path to pleasure.

Éowyn smiled to herself. It was not that bad, really: she was going to enjoy herself quite well, by the looks of it. And her increasing lust was doing a fine job of lulling her spite, for already she could, even if ironically, feel gratitude towards her husband.

Meanwhile, Faramir had applied two more portions of oil to his lover’s flesh, making Aragorn’s thick member glossily wet and positively dripping. They gave each other a satisfied knowing smile, and Faramir wiped his hand off between his own buttocks.

Visibly careful not to smear the coating from his cock, Aragorn leant in to cup Faramir on the cheek and give him a quick teasing kiss.

And then, when he drew away to look into the younger man’s face for a long quiet moment, to exchange with Faramir one last lingering glance before they got to it, everything went wrong. Suddenly yet irreversibly wrong, for the expression coming to rule their features, it… No, it was wrong, it absolutely did not fit into what Éowyn had gathered their relationship to be about. The intense, serious, _meaningful_ tenderness in their eyes was impossible to overlook or misinterpret even from Éowyn’s position, and it pained her with piercing sharpness, making her breath catch with an inaudible gasp. Unaware of it, she drew her hand away from her intimate places, for in that moment she not only forgot about her self-interest, fully captivated and drawn into what the men shared, what had just passed between them unspoken – but forgot about the sexual nature of the situation on the whole.

Éowyn knew in that moment that sex for them was not the ends, but merely the means – the means to materially express all the intangible things they felt for each other, intangible yet far more enduring than simple carnal lust could ever come to be, no matter how potent in its primitive might. They may have teased each other in the process, may have been rough and hasty, and for a while it had concealed from her the true quality of their connection – but this one instant had revealed the truth in one brilliant flash.

She had wanted to know the nature of their passion, had wanted to know why they could not have picked some other men to share their beds with. She knew now.

There was love between them, the capital letter love. Not just affection, or attachment, or masculine companionship. No. It was far more serious than that. Gravely serious.

Yet the cause of the pain this realisation brought Éowyn was not the jealousy that would have been fully expected to roar up in her at the sight of the man she had long fantasised about and her husband looking at each other like this, for this jealousy strangely failed to come forth. Nor was it fear that Faramir’s love, which she had always taken for granted – and which, she had to admit to herself, she still fully wanted, despite what she had just learnt about him – that his love, in being bestowed upon someone else, could be taken from her. Again, this was not the direction her thought took.

She did not think about herself in that minute at all, for her indignation had given way in the face of the poignant beauty of their bond, and suddenly she was filled with empathy for them, and it was the empathy that stabbed at her.

This gentleness between two men, this mutual care and trust – there was something inexplicably sad, hopeless about it, some fragile, delicate quality. And it also spoke of such a deep, profound connection, such complete understanding of each other, which, it seemed to her now, a man could only find with another man, whose body and mind obeyed the same laws.

And suddenly she was ashamed of being there, of watching them, for it felt to her she was intruding on something preciously private, something so sacred that even being Faramir’s spouse did not give her the right to witness, did not give her the right to even know about.

It was this very notion that brought her back to herself, to her own position in this whole arrangement – and she lowered her eyes, even in her privacy striving to keep control over her face and blink back the tears coming to cloud her vision for the second time that night.

She felt defeated, and the taste of it was familiar – acute, heavy bitterness. The taste of coming to discover that one’s ideal view of the world, of one’s own life, which had seemed perfectly within reach not too long ago, was never going to realise itself. The taste of coming to discover that fate did not favour her, giving to others what she wanted for herself. As of late she had come to think fate was kinder than it seemed, its strokes allowing bliss to be found where otherwise it would not have been looked for. But what bliss could she ever find here…?

It was far worse than she had wanted to believe. How could she deal with something like this?

Éowyn grinned to herself, and there was no mirth in the grin. So men were smart in having come up with that excuse about their illicit affairs being based on nothing but vulgar lust. Much as it was a stab in the guts to discover one was sharing their partner’s body with another, it was certainly far less piercing than coming to learn his heart was also being shared.

Part of the problem was that this new revelation, instead of increasing her indignation, served only to justify their conduct in her eyes. Even decent, conscientious people did unwise, imprudent things because of love. And certainly people who were unfaithful to their spouses because of love did not deserve the same amount of scorn as those who did it sheerly out of low animal desires? It must, in fact, weigh hard on them to love each other like this, against their matrimonial bonds, against the social conventions.

Perhaps, Éowyn thought, she would have preferred if, instead of this, he had allowed Eolinda to seduce him, without any feelings being involved. It would have been so much simpler…

Suddenly she snapped back. She was acquitting them?! Feeling sorry for them?!

What on Arda was wrong with her?!

She had meant to entertain herself a little before being able to sit down and think it through with a clear mind – but as soon as she saw a sparkle of tenderness between these two, she got herself all soppy. Where was her self-respect, where were her wits?!

The fact that she wished to derive some light-hearted enjoyment out of the situation did not mean the situation on the whole should or even could be approached light-heartedly, or that she should allow any of it to get to her.

She ought not to forget that her enjoyment was not the reason the men were now doing what they were – it was but a meagre compensation, and ought to be made the best of. Let her intrude on their privacy if she had to. They, after all, had also trespassed on her territory, Aragorn taking her rightful place on Faramir’s pillow, and Faramir looking far from grieved by his wife’s absence.

Yes, she should toughen her heart and be pragmatic about the whole thing. No more of this sympathetic nonsense.

And when Éowyn looked back at them with this new resolution, she saw that the tenderness that had unsettled her so had passed without a trace. What more, the men had not been idle, and had moved to arrive at a rather interesting arrangement.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Previously in ‘Hungry Eyes and a Blade of Steel’_
> 
> Upon discovering there is far more than thoughtless mating between her husband and their king, Éowyn is for a while overwhelmed and uncertain as to what attitude she should adopt towards the situation. Catching herself growing sentimental, she abruptly collects herself, deciding that regardless of Faramir and Aragorn’s feelings for each other or lack of thereof, she is still being wronged, and therefore is going to carry on with her earlier plan. When she looks back to the men, she sees that while she had been going through her emotional struggle, they had abandoned all tenderness and already moved forward with their routine.

Éowyn smiled, curiosity hitching anew her intimidated arousal. Her left hand slowly resumed its playful quest as she narrowed her eyes studying the unfamiliar disposition.

Faramir had shifted to the edge of the bed where he lay on his side with his knees bent, so that his thighs were on the mattress while his shins hung off. This position made his hind quarters perfectly accessible to Aragorn who now stood before him on the floor, but Faramir seemed as though oblivious of his exposedness and lay calm and relaxed.

For a long moment Aragorn remained straight and still, only gazing down upon his lover, as though wishing to preserve the image in his mind. Éowyn may have grown used to the sight of Faramir in his nakedness, but for Aragorn it must have been otherwise – which was little wonder, really, given the men’s official schedule could not have possibly allowed them to get to each other all that often. Or else he was simply enjoying the anticipation game, which Éowyn, much to Faramir’s gentle amusement, had never quite mastered.

She thus had an undisturbed sideways view of the older man, including his desire proudly rising forth from his tough lean body. His expression stern and keen, he looked raw and unpolished, unguarded in his ruthless maleness, regal in some ancient, undistilled way, more like a chieftain of a proud war-like tribe than a magnanimous monarch of a refined and cultured people. She saw in him now far more of the Dúnedain Ranger, the lone weathered warrior she had once known than the stately High King who had come after.

And this view, coupled with Faramir’s pose, the younger man’s pale muscular behind so invitingly vulnerable, his serenity so unwary, made her once again feel that between two men it was somehow different, that here strength did not disallow pliancy, that similarity of make did not prevent a power-play. Indeed, she had been looking too deep into this: in truth she did not have to relate, to empathise – she could simply watch, as one does a foreign marvel, and let it speak to her on some more basal level, as one can be moved by a song without knowing the language.

Her own sensations was what ought to concern her the most; speaking of which, after the unplanned little break her intimate places were responding with doubled appreciation to her own touch – and also with doubled hunger. Yes, pausing every once in a while was surely favourable for a good profound heat to work itself up in her – only she did not have the appropriate tools to quench that heat should it become too scorching for comfort. She had never before embarked upon this task single-handedly, in whichever sense, and a doubt began to nag at Éowyn that once again she would not make it on time…

Thus while Aragorn lingered, she let the tune take her ahead and summon in her mind the images of what would transpire next. Aragorn was a tall man, and the bed was not that high, so when finally he were to set about sealing their bodies together, he would have to squat _quite_ a bit to bring his hips to the right level. Hardly would that be a problem for him, for he seemed rather accustomed to every move on their agenda. She figured the King would have to plant his feet wide apart and facing outwards, so as to be able to lean against the edge of the mattress with the inner sides of his knees and shins, and then likely he would hoist Faramir’s top leg onto his shoulder to use it as additional support. Then, propping himself up on his elbow Faramir would reach over to hold Aragorn’s cock – he seemed to have no problem doing that – and guide him in: only the very tip, the rest his lord could manage by himself. Then the Steward would lie back down and the King would set to it...

Éowyn found this surmised position to be somehow very indecent – deliciously indecent in fact, for it came across as vulgar and athletic, without even a pretence of tenderness or moderation to it. No, it was a position for pure undiluted fucking – just what she wanted to see now. And although she and Faramir had never tried out an arrangement like this, when it came to two men like her lords, painting such a scene in her imagination was no effort.

She was positively envious of Faramir by then: in mere seconds he was going to have _that_ , while all she had to content with were her own fingers which there was no use even trying to fit in, given her inconvenient upright stance and that confounded sword restraining her movements. Suppressing a weary sigh, Éowyn chewed on her lip irritably. Oh well, no one had promised it was going to be easy…

But Aragorn – slowly, as though unaware of himself, only raised his hand and gave himself a light unhurried stroke, his gaze hard upon Faramir.

Éowyn could not see Faramir’s face, but she knew he must have been watching, for at this he laughed softly.

“What’s keeping you, my lord?” he inquired in a voice warm, and deep, and playful, like velvet – and arched his back a little, as one basking in lazy dalliance after an undisturbed sleep, or a cat lying stretched out in a spot of sunlight. “Do come and claim your own. I may swear I shan’t lie idle.”

“I would indeed be surprised if you did,” Aragorn replied in like manner, but his eyes remained hard and unwavering. Nor did he rush to fulfil Faramir’s request, and instead brushed another stroke over his length. It was clear he was sorely testing his own patience, for the muscles in his legs and buttocks visibly tensed in response to his own touch – but Aragorn, apparently, preferred waiting for the good things.

When Faramir spoke, she could tell he was grinning. “Ever so modest – always have to be asked twice.”

“You know that is not the point,” Aragorn replied with another stroke.

“Indeed,” Faramir agreed. “Ah, and why did I only bother oiling you up?” he added in a far less humble tone. “For I see you are going to rub all of it off yourself.”

“Certainly not _all_ of it,” Aragorn replied in amusement, but lowered his hand nonetheless.

“Perhaps I should help then,” Faramir suggested, the seriousness in his tone threatening to burst at the seams. Without changing his pose, he only stretched out his top leg and with the sole of his foot ran a light caress down Aragorn’s hip and the beginning of the man’s thigh.

Leaning into the touch Aragorn sighed, his eyelids lowering a little. Then the King’s lips parted and a lightest of shivers shook him as with the next stroke Faramir apparently brushed the man’s cock with the inner side of his foot.

“Faramir,” he said as though a little reproachfully.

“Yes?” came a perfectly innocent reply.

“You are asking for trouble.”

“Am I?”

Aragorn made a vague sound in the back of his throat as the move was repeated with greater pressure.

“You remember how this ended last time.”

“I could not sit down for three days – yes, I remember.”

“A week.”

“You flatter yourself. But regardless – I found it quite worth it.”

“Did you, now?”

“Most certainly,” Faramir assured him and, without breaking contact with the King’s manhood, turned onto his back and stretched out his other leg, his own erection thus coming into view. Éowyn could not see her husband’s face for the way he kept his arms bent and lying above his head, but she knew his expression spoke outright mischief as he caught Aragorn’s cock between the arcs of his feet. She grinned – this was, perhaps, even more interesting than what she had had in mind for them.

Aragorn tilted his head back, his fingers curling into his palm as slowly and gently Faramir moved back and forth over him. Before long the older man began to rock in rhythm with him, obviously trying to bring in contact with Faramir’s skin not only the sides, but the more sensitive underneath of his manhood. But each time Faramir swiftly avoided it, readjusting his hold if only a little.

Aragorn’s hand twitched, then twitched again – and suddenly he grasped Faramir on the ankle. The younger man snorted and pulled away.

“Nah-uh – no touching, don’t forget.”

“I’ve always said that’s a stupid rule,” Aragorn grumbled ruefully.

“Well, otherwise it wouldn’t be fun,” Faramir reasoned, with his toes painting a thoughtful line down the King’s hip.

“It would – for me.”

“Indeed – but you are not the only one here.”

Aragorn shook his head. “Ah, the things I let you get away with. Were you not such a good lay, I would have long since had you flogged for all your impudence, I swear.”

“Promises, promises,” Faramir teased, tilting his foot sideways and with the heel carefully massaging Aragorn’s balls. “Although, hm, perhaps you should,” he mused idly, “for sometimes it feels you’ve cockered all shame out of me.”

This time it was Aragorn who snorted. “Not like you had that much to begin with.”

To this Faramir only hummed noncommittally, and then said, “Oh, but look – just like I said, the oil is pretty much gone.”

“If you are so worried, why don’t we slicken _you_ up a bit instead?” Aragorn proposed brightly.

Then swiftly he knelt before the bed and, gripping Faramir by the thighs, pushed the younger man’s legs up to his chest, which Faramir met with a delighted laugh. The laugh, however, changed into a strangled, lip-biting moan midway through, for Aragorn –

Éowyn stared.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Previously in ‘Hungry Eyes and a Blade of Steel’_
> 
> Éowyn makes assumptions as to will happen next, but what Aragorn actually proceeds to perform upon Faramir catches her off guard and makes her stare.

Her first impulse was to wince – but she did not, and only frowned in perplexity, her hand pausing in its ministrations. Then in a moment she grinned and tossed her head, for she saw a challenge in this, and a challenge was something she could work with.

 _Oh, go ahead,_ Éowyn dared them in thought, resuming the repetitive motions of her fingers with such headstrong determination as though driving a point home, _do your worst!_ They could try and repel her, try and not let her forget that this was a private club, that the tricks of this passion were a men-only thing – she would withstand, she would prove them wrong, point by point.

Although she could not see it, from the hungry rhythmic movement of Aragorn’s jaw, and, more importantly, from the way Faramir had instantly begun to squirm and gasp in apparent delight, she knew that Aragorn’s kiss on him was as deep as it got. So the King was snogging her husband’s arse – pfft, big deal! Admittedly, she had expected him to put his cock in there rather than his tongue – but not like this was the first thing tonight to go against her expectations. Nor was it much of a surprise Faramir should enjoy it so, given some of the other rather unconventional extracurricular activities that it turned out he fancied. And as for Aragorn – that one obviously got off on eating the forbidden fruit, what with stealing other people’s men and fucking them in the arse, to name a few.

And, most importantly – it did not, in point of fact, seem disgusting to her. Mayhap the concept itself indeed would have, if viewed in theory, taken out of context, as an impersonal technical exercise – but as a little indulgence between the two lovers before her eyes, in no time at all it was making her veritably leak with desire, her breath hastening. To make love with the mouth had always seemed sumptuously smutty to her – and to do it in _such_ a configuration was certainly as smutty as it only got.

But then, just as she had settled into the mood, Aragorn drew away and sat back on his haunches. Éowyn was ready to stomp her foot in annoyance: not only did she have to put up with a fixed angle of observation, holding her sword and keeping absolutely quiet, the latter of which was especially bothering her – their manner of jumping from one thing to another was beginning to tag at her nerves as well. A little bit of this, a little bit of that – how was she supposed to get anywhere at this rate?

As a little consolation, it seemed Faramir was with her on this.

“More…” he murmured as though half-unconscious, as though he was in a fever and all he had strength left for was to gather a fistful of the sheets and beg for the cure.

“Nah,” replied the King with a lazy grin, “that’s plenty enough for you.” At this he gave his lover’s upturned behind a light slap.

She then saw it was all part of the routine, for Faramir, much as he had seemed loath for the service to end, did not, however, voice any more protest and instead at once raised himself up and turned over to… Éowyn lifted an eyebrow: she had not thought this horse-breeding position was something human beings actually implemented into their loveplay – he stood on his hands and knees, rump arched up in an unmisinterpretable invitation.

Good Valar, her Faramir wanted to be done like an animal – and she used to deem him a bit too genteel and refined…

Aragorn, however, was obviously under no such illusions – and he had not batted an eyelid at the swiftness with which Faramir had changed his pose. In fact, the King had already assumed a different stance as well, straightening up and putting one foot on the mattress as he planted his hand on Faramir’s hip. And into his other hand he took his flushed royal manhood and proceeded to rub its blunt edge up and down between his steward’s parted buttocks. Immediately Faramir pushed back at him, needily, already moaning for mercy. The King did not seem much moved by his enthusiasm, though, for he kept on teasing Faramir thus until the man’s humble pleas turned into demanding curses of impatience. Hm, another interesting observation, her Faramir actually swore in bed. If only she could see his face, drat him! But Faramir’s dark locks were obscuring everything save for a section of his tense pale neck. Oh, how she would have liked to watch his expression as at last Aragorn ever so slowly, ever so unhurriedly slipped all the way into him, making her man shudder and strain his back – then out, completely out, only to enter him anew a moment later.

How drop-dead gorgeously submissive Faramir looked… Watching him thus she felt something in her arise that she had not encouraged in herself for quite a while now, something that dated back to her maidenhood days, to when ‘dashing’ and ‘glorious’ were the best compliments she could have thought of. In this moment of his pliancy she could more than ever relate to the way Aragorn desired him, as a man. She liked the feeling: being a lady in laces and silks was nice, but it would never be all she was, there would always be something that yearned for the other side – and this, before her eyes, was, perhaps, one of the things that made the other side worthwhile.

Faramir sighed heavily, a visible shudder running through his body. The King gave him a few moments to get used to it, then pulled back a little and – slam! – went in all the way to the hilt. Aragorn was not playing any longer. His expression hard and almost unkind, the thrust accompanied with an upward jerk of his chin, he was as though saying, _See, this is what you get for giving me cheek. You’ve asked for this, now don’t go saying you are being mistreated_.

But Faramir, naturally, said nothing of the sort, for quite clearly this was just what he wanted, to be fucked so hard it hurt. And as Aragorn beat into him again, he only bowed his head, as though obediently accepting his lot, and uttered a small helpless sound through clenched teeth. Was it for the way he actually arched back at the King, as though asking for even more, or was it for that uncharacteristic little noise he had made, but suddenly something in Éowyn clicked and she was ready, fully ready to go, _now_.

Her eyes widened in alarm.

In point of fact, in their marital bed release as such had never been the sole purpose of the whole exercise, and she had long since stopped obsessing about finishing in time with him, knowing it would be made certain she did not stay unsatisfied. Yet now… Now it was a matter of principle, her proof to herself that she was not a loser in this situation. Nothing would suffice but a most superlative, victorious, _perfectly timed_ conclusion. And now was _not_ perfect timing.

To finish now would be like breaking an arm two weeks before the end of war and missing the final battle. That had happened to her once, and she had hated it – she still hated it, a little.

She had only an instant to decide, but an instant was plenty enough, as Aragorn would put it, for this was not a decision Éowyn needed to think twice about.

She jerked her hand away, as though the very contact of skin to skin was perilous. For a bit the rejected joy floated about uncomfortably in her loins, then dissipated. Éowyn closed her eyes and leant with her forehead to the doorframe.

It took her several long moments to catch her breath and gather herself.

Then, as she judged herself ready to resume and looked up, it was just in time to see the King – both feet firmly on the floor now – bend down and plant a crushing grip on his lover’s thighs – and yank them abruptly up and towards himself, so that Faramir’s legs went up in the air and he was left supporting his weight on his hands only. The younger man yelled out harshly, and it seemed to Éowyn this action of Aragorn’s might have been a little hard on him, what with that enormous thing still fully inside…

It was getting veritably brutal. Faramir’s whole body was rocked violently with each thrust, the propulsion of Aragorn’s hips going undeterred through all of him, and his arms were visibly straining to keep him from collapsing onto the messed up sheets. Although it seemed he was trying to keep it at least a bit quiet, perhaps for the sake of the servants in the adjacent wing, he was practically shouting now, shouting with what sounded most like pain – only she could tell that even if it was pain indeed, it more than in half consisted of pleasure.

No, this was not something she could have ever given him.

“Harder!” he growled, buckling backwards against Aragorn. “ _Harder_ , damn it!”

At this point she knew she should have taken it when the opportunity had arisen, for the longer she watched, the more unsettled she became. If only her responses had not been so tightly tied up to her heart or mind, then probably the crude eroticism of the sight would have been enough to push her into bliss. But this degree of uninhibitedness in him frightened her. Éowyn saw that for his part he wanted to be treated with far less deference or courtesy than he unfailingly displayed towards her. Admittedly, he was never remotely mild with her, yet no matter what they were doing, a deep fundamental respect underlay his every touch, his every gesture. Not so with Aragorn – with Aragorn he smoothly and naturally allowed the game to go yet a step further, to trespass boundaries and limits, to descend into the depths that with her he did not even begin to tap into. Was it that in a beloved woman he saw, always, no matter what, the mother of his future children, a noble honourable dame, a person who was by grace of her femininity irrevocably vulnerable before him – and only in the arms of a male lover, so powerful and conveniently cynical, could he find the complete fulfillment of his needs?

Wish as she may, she could not detach herself. Could not help feeling that she was, perhaps, not such a good lover after all, even if through no fault that lay in her power to correct. For he had never opened himself up like this to _her_. True enough, in the heat of his passion he could go hard and fast on her, could reduce her to convulsions and screams. Yet nevertheless he never crossed the line, ever remaining loving, respectful and mindful; never had he been in any way rough or forceful, never had he shown her this side of himself that so easily broke forth when he was with Aragorn. He had never asked of her what Aragorn asked of him and what he was so willing to give.

Speaking of which, it looked like it had become all too much for him to bear, and he simply did not know what to do with himself. He did not even hump back at the King, nor did he thrash in his iron grasp anymore – Faramir had as though given up, and slumped face-down onto the mattress, only gathering handfuls of his glossy black locks, helplessly twisting and pulling at them. His back looked uncomfortably, almost unnaturally bent back at the waist as Aragorn was still holding him up at the hips, but Faramir apparently cared little – not did he care that the motion was dragging him mercilessly back and forth against the bed.

His cry of release that followed shortly was high-pitched and desperate – and she, too, was beginning to feel desperate. Surely Aragorn would soon follow – but she...?

Faramir, however, had promised to not lie idle. Besides, he was often the one to finish first – and was in habit of making up for it straight away.

Indeed, Aragorn brought himself to a halt, and Faramir took only one long ragged breath to collect himself, and then slid off the King’s desire, desire still hot and demanding. And Aragorn stepped back a pace to let the younger man move down to kneel on the floor, turn around and…

Éowyn ran her tongue over her suddenly parched upper lip. Nay, he would not take it in his mouth, surely not, not after it had just been right up his…

But he did – zealously, ravenously, visibly rapturous with gratitude for what it had just given him… And obviously with some practiced skill, for in a single gulp he swallowed up all of it, gripping the King on the buttocks and pulling him forth as though to ensure not half an inch of the regal length was left out of the loving heat of his mouth.

No wonder he had been able to so comprehensively explain to her just how this task should be performed.

He kept his eyes closed at first, obviously too concentrated on the process. But once he had established a rhythm, he looked up at Aragorn and held the older man’s gaze, revelling in the service he was being allowed to perform, confirming his willingness to do anything for his liege, to bring him pleasure in whatever way Aragorn chose to ask.

And she saw Aragorn grin, and then the King’s hands snaked into her husband’s rather dishevelled hair and snugly cradled the back of the man’s head. She thought she actually saw Faramir shiver in a toxic mixture of eager anticipation and trepidation, and then Aragorn pulled back only to swing forth and disappear into him fully. Pulled back again, more than half way out, then drove home again. None too gently, none too gently at all.

And she saw it was hard on her man, for he had tensed up, and was jerking faintly at every forceful stab into the back of his throat, yet he endured it patiently – nay, not endured it, savoured it, welcomed each thrust as a most generous of all royal gifts. And in a way, so it was, for she knew exactly what sort of hot savoury gift he would receive in reward for his loyalty in the end.

Her face was burning. _Come on,_ she muttered soundlessly, _come on, come on, come on!_ She had wanted to make herself scream – well, she had practically succeeded, for her flesh was now so sensitised that touching it was almost painful, and every escalation of pleasure made her wince and hurriedly stifle treacherous high-pitched whines uprising in her throat. She was too used to indulging herself in this department, and, if anything, she usually moaned and screamed even louder than she actually had need to – for Faramir’s sake. When she was atop him, riding like she would a fresh vigorous steed, he would often grip her hips and demand that she give him her ‘battle cry’. She would always gladly oblige.

But now…

She bit back a gasp, stifled a moan, swallowed a whimper. Nay, whatever the circumstances, she would make it. She would, she just had to. Just a bit more, oh, just a little bit… She twisted her hand, the thumb remaining on the outside, the next two fingers going in, then hunched over a little to be also able to rub her nipple against the inside of her upper arm. Another gasp, another little shudder, almost there… She was breathing heavily through her nose, nostrils flaring, teeth gritted, so concentrated on keeping it quiet. Maybe she ought to try and fit the hilt in – a lusty warrior secretly making love to her trusted sword, utterly self-sufficient, no bastard of a man required... This proved a fruitful fantasy. One last convulsion, and she felt a tidal warmth rising and unfolding in her thighs… Oh, blessed heavens…

Another second, and she would lose her grip on reality…

DE-KLANG!!!

Éowyn jolted back on sheer reflex – and froze, with a sinking heart realising her other hand was empty, sweat-slickened fingers grasping vainly at thin air.

Her sword. Her bloody blinking sword. She had lost grip all right – on it. There the blade lay at her feet, the metal glinting dully in the light that seeped through the door crack.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Previously in ‘Hungry Eyes and a Blade of Steel’_
> 
> When things finally begin looking up and it seems Éowyn is about to succeed in her endeavour, her sword slips out of her grasp and crashes on the stone floor with a wall-shaking racket.

She could not perceive what was going on in the room, but all sound had ceased there, and the resulting silence was, perhaps, even more eloquent than all the previous noise.

For her, when it came to choosing between ‘flee’ and ‘fight’, flee was never even an option. And Éowyn had only had time to wipe her hand on the back of her bloomers, straighten up and assume a dignified look before the door was yanked wide open.

The High King of Gondor stared at her in uttermost disbelief, as though he would have expected anyone – a fire spitting Dragon perhaps – anyone at all to be there but her.

Her head held high, Éowyn stood tall and unembarrassed, clad in her powder-blue frilly skimpiness as she was. In any other circumstances, to appear messy-haired and in her underclothes before a man who was not her husband would have caused no end of mortification, but now she glared Aragorn square in the face, quite secure in the feeling that if one of them ought to be mortified, it was he, given he had on nothing at all and was pointing at her in a rather indecent manner.

“My lady,” he uttered at last.

“Good evening, sire,” she replied with sarcastic politeness, not bothering, however, to even imitate a bow.

He nodded in a disoriented way, but then a hint of a grin touched his lips.

“Were you planning to murder me with this?” Aragorn asked, with his eyes indicating the blade lying between them.

Éowyn raised a sceptical eyebrow. “If I were, I could have already done so, for I see you carrying no weapon to defend yourself with, my lord. Unless you were to use that,” she gave his upright and quavering cock a long meaningful glance. And a damn good cock it was, she could not help but note yet again… Majestic, indeed.

“I… had not thought of that,” he admitted in discomfiture, obviously entirely at a loss how to behave in this situation, her glance not helping him in the least. He did not, however, make any futile attempts at covering himself, for shocked as he was he must have already gathered she had just witnessed things far worse.

She did not say anything – no, she was not going to spare him the embarrassment. Let him struggle searching for words. She felt daring, bold, almost derisive as the unreleased fire brewed mischievously in her veins – and, really, in the light of recent events she saw herself allotted a far greater freedom of conduct than otherwise acceptable towards the King. He could not, in all decency, accuse her of discourtesy, especially what with his cock staring her unblinkingly in the face.

At last Aragorn sighed. “Won’t you come in, lady?” he stepped aside a little, making a vague inviting gesture with his hand. “I believe some explanations are in order.”

She raised both brows this time. “Oh, quite on the contrary, sire, it all seems rather self-explanatory to me.”

“Yes, I… I suppose it does,” he agreed awkwardly. “Well, all the more, you must be at least expecting an apology.”

“Expecting? Don’t you reckon I am actually _entitled_ to one? Or, as a matter of fact – to two, from each of you, my lords.”

He nodded wearily. “Of course. I am, indeed, truly sorry you have come to learn of it like so.”

“Oh? Merely that? That is the sole cause of your regret?”

Aragorn frowned, hesitation readable in his face. No, he did not appear sorry for anything else, but would not owning up to as much be a little too impudent in a time like this?

“Please,” he said finally, “do come in. These matters ought not to be discussed over a threshold.”

It must be said the King, for his part, had many misgivings about stepping aside and letting the two of them work it out. And yet, be as he may their Lord and Sire by day, at the moment he was ‘the lover’, and thus did not have the right of voice. No, it had to be the unfaithful husband who provided the explanation – or whatever else he was going to provide.

And Faramir, the man’s face pale and set, just as naked yet appearing altogether far more modest for the lack of arousal, came over to stand beside him – not too close to appear intimate, yet not far enough to seem like in the presence of the rightful spouse he was overcome with contrition and was now renouncing his adulterous passion. From this little detail alone Éowyn, who after all knew him a bit, read clearer than he could have ever put in words that she and the King were no rivals here. Her path and Aragorn’s simply did not cross in his heart for any competition to be able to arise, he somehow had enough love capacity for both a young woman and an older man, a lady he had once saved from her own demons and a lord who had saved him. To him, loving a woman was not secondary to loving a man or vice versa, and they were no more a substitute for one another than bread could quench thirst or water – hunger. But what was the result of this cute poetic composition? Merely that he got to have everything he wanted, including Aragorn in his bed…

Éowyn looked up at the Steward with a challenge in her eyes, the blush on her cheeks so hot she was sure it was visible even in the warm fire-light – and Faramir nodded to her in greeting.

“My lady,” he said, heavily and seriously. And that was it, that was all he said.

Always a true gentleman with a dame, his gaze did not stray a notch below her face, but Éowyn knew her suggestive attire could not have escaped his attention, and certainly Faramir knew what it indicated, understood with what purpose she had initially headed for his chambers. Yet nothing in his face betrayed this realisation or any other, and he stood before her quiet and grave – as one on a trial, it suddenly crossed her mind.

As the pause lengthened, Aragorn shifted his weight warily – but said nothing.

And Éowyn saw that her earlier concerns had not been ungrounded. No, her husband was not going to fall to his knees, and drape himself in sackcloth and ashes, and beg for forgiveness, and claim to have been bewitched, or overcome with passion, or madness, or whatever.

No, he was simply standing before her, silently confirming everything that was laid out before her eyes.

Marvellous!

This was right, though, she had to concede. Right in the sense that his was the sort of reaction that, albeit further feeding her spite, also proved to her that she had done well by choosing this man. She would not have respected one who fell to the floor before her with weepy apologies, pleas or, worse still, attempts to convince her this ‘was not what it looked like’. Indeed, this stubborn defiance of his strangely pleased her. Even though it was precisely what she hated, too.

And what was she supposed to do? Even if she had wanted, unfathomably, to forgive or excuse him, how could she if he gave her no means to do so?

She looked away, seized by a powerful desire to not know. She wished that she had stayed at the village overnight or gone astray in the darkness, and wandered lost in the woods for many hours and only made it home towards the morning. She would have been glad not to know, to let it continue without her ever being aware: apparently it had been going on for quite a while, and everyone had been happy… She even thought, fine, let me know – but would that he did not. She could have lived with the knowledge: she would have fumed, and felt insecure about herself, and been nasty to him for a while, and whatnot, but she would have come around. She would have grown used to the thought as the body can grow a desensitised callus around a splinter stuck in the skin – in due course she would have stopped thinking about it altogether. Why had she had to stay around and wait for her sword to fall, which of course it was bound to have done…? What had she been so curious for? She well knew no husband was perfect – not that she herself was an embodiment of all existing wifely virtues – and had never been too eager to find out what exactly was the catch with hers. To know that he vented out his strange passions on another man was more than enough. The details were none of her business, just like they never had been: she had always had more sense than to pry into his past, to ask how he had accumulated all that spectacular sexual mastery. She knew he had accumulated it _somehow_ , and that was already more than she cared to know – not that he would have cared to hear that sometimes she closed her eyes and told herself that the strong knowing hand between her legs was Aragorn’s. To her it all made perfect sense: she loved Faramir – once in a while she fantasised about Aragorn – but she did not love Faramir any less for it. But of course to Faramir it would never have made ‘perfect sense’, and she had always been fine and comfortable knowing this was something about her she would never let him learn. But this time – no, she had had to _understand_ what it was like for him, she had had to get inside his head, had to relate to what he felt…

Congratulations, she had more or less succeeded – and now what…?

She knew that _now_ it could not work out, for she knew he would not yield. He was grieved and afraid, but he would not yield in the only appropriate way: would not denounce his affair. Was their marriage now doomed to be forever lame and limping, this thorn stuck in its flesh for good?

But he had taught her to believe in happy endings.

 _Fine_ , she thought, _we’ll do what we’ve never done but what everyone else does all the time. We’ll argue and fight, and somehow something will come up._ Battlefields always provided a good soil for flowers to grow on – and even in the royal quarters, it was no secret, cut-glass flew at walls and voices were raised every once in a while.


	8. Chapter 8

“Well,” Éowyn said icily, preparing to dazzle him with her full arsenal of outrage, contempt and even, should occasion arise, fury. They had both had enough bitterness earlier in life, and theirs had always been a marriage where people were nice to each other, careful, tactful even when frank, where to start a quarrel would be to go against the very foundations of good taste. Perhaps it was time for that to change. “Our lord here has said you were dying to explain something to me,” she said, pointedly ignoring Aragorn as though he was no longer there, erection and all. She was going to deal with them one by one, she would not let them get into some kind of coalition and outnumber her – while at the same time Aragorn being there served for her peace of mind as somewhat of a guarantee that Faramir would not say to her something he would not have liked the King to hear.

Faramir took a deep breath, then sighed heavily. “With all due respect to our lord, I believe there is rather little space left for explanations.”

“Yes, quite,” she agreed with mock pleasantness. “When one starts sleeping around, the deeds tend to speak for themselves well enough.”

Ah, this was a good one, she could tell: Faramir’s eyes flashed dangerously, and his face went just a shade paler. She had never seen him direct this kind of look at her, and it strangely excited her. She wanted it to be new, wanted herself to try a different role, wanted them to go beyond the habitual.

Yet he withheld himself. “If that is how it appears, I would have it be known I am not sleeping around,” his voice was calm to the extreme. “I have not known another woman since I met you, Éowyn – and I have not known another man since I first saw Aragorn.” She almost flinched at how casually he referred to the King in this intimate way – just ‘Aragorn’. “Nor have I wanted to,” he added – and this, too, was a good one, for, although in itself it should have reassured her, she heard a faint hint of accusation in his words. Perhaps she had not heard it but had imagined it herself… No matter, it hit her sorest spot: _he_ may not have wanted to touch another woman, but _she_ … she had dreamt of another man, and dreamt often. Hence of the two of them which one was more at fault before the other…?

She did not wish to deal with this sort of guilt at the moment. Whatever she may have done in her thought – she had never actually wronged him, while he… Although, to think of it, had it been she whom Aragorn had directed his advances at, would have her resolve withstood…?

Éowyn told herself to stay focused. This was like a sparring match, little else, and hers was a good partner, clever and well-armed – but she was, nevertheless, in the advantageous position and should not let him think he could intimidate her.

So in way of reply she only made a dismissive face and crossed her arms, as though his comment did not even deserve a verbal retort.

Faramir sighed as though he had not truly counted on that argument to win him any ground.

“Of course,” he began wearily, “we should have never come to speak of this in such circumstances, and it is fully my fault. I had thought – foolishly, it seems now – that you would rather not know.”

“Ah, how noble of you to go out of your way to protect my feelings,” she barely abstained from adding a sarcastic huff. But no, oh no, she was not going to huff, or scream, or make suffering gestures with her hands – she would not stand to come across as a pitiful victim, she would not show pain or frustration. She would not cry and ask, ‘how could you?’ Her dignity called that she rather dress her wounds in the insensitive armour of ‘I couldn’t care less for what you have to say’.

“Éowyn, please –” he wanted her to hear him out, but it was too much of a temptation for her and she interjected quickly.

“If you were so keen on not hurting me, perhaps you should have refrained from fucking behind my back,” she said and was pleased to hear the provocation in her own voice.

She had never used the word in his presence, and she saw it insulted him that she should – and especially in reference to him. And from this also she derived an exciting sort of satisfaction: see, she too could breach his composure, it did not require a man to do that.

“Perhaps you think you should have been given a say in this, being my spouse?” Faramir asked very calmly, and she thought, yes, here comes the fight. She gathered up, readying to strike back with a biting riposte to what she figured he might say next, something about a man’s right to his freedom or his natural and insurmountable necessity to fuck anything that was technically fuckable. But instead he only exhaled heavily and said, “I am sorry if that is your sentiment indeed, but in either case I did not deem it anything but hypocrisy to come asking if you would mind that I loved the King, to assign you part of the responsibility by thereby asking – because, for better or worse, no one has the power to forbid my heart to love whom it would – not even I.” She wondered if he would now relate a teary tale of how he had battled his wayward heart and was at long last defeated, but he did not. “But my desires are, by all means, my own problem, and of course it was presumptuous of me to make assumptions as to how you would react were you to be informed. Indeed, I have been quite successful at convincing myself you,” it seemed to her he was going to say ‘would understand’, and she was ready to spitefully interpret it in the arrogant meaning of ‘you wouldn’t want to be a selfish bitch and begrudge what I needed for my happiness’. She all gathered herself up to lash out at him, to laugh incredulously and exclaim, ‘ah, so now I am the villain here, come to deprive my poor husband of a harmless necessity’. But he paused and the look coming into his eyes said that he saw her not only incapable of understanding it, but, further than that, anatomically incapable of understanding how he could even _expect_ her to understand. And instead he only said, “But I see I was severely mistaken in my judgement.”

She narrowed her eyes, wondering what he was getting at, where the catch was. She was certain there indeed was a catch, for Faramir had not yet as such sued for pardon and the longer he spoke, the more she grew convinced he was not going to.

He chewed on his lip, and in that moment it seemed to her that he was actually extremely sick at heart. And suddenly she had an impulse to lower the blade of her outrage if only for a minute, to tell him she understood more than he gave her credit for, that, for instance, it did not revolt her he was drawn to someone of his own make. Or, she could say, look, this is all a little too farcical to be taken fully seriously, what with this whole conversation taking place in the presence of an incorrigibly boned-up man and myself hardly dressed for court either. But no, he would not disarm her that easily, pity had already nearly ruined it for her earlier this night. And so she only raised her chin and spoke nothing to oppose his words.

“Well, regardless of what I may have thought,” Faramir said and ran his fingers across his forehead, “there now remains little ambiguity as to your standing on this. But while your anger is, naturally, fully justified, I’d still allow myself the boldness to ask for one last favour from you.”

“Oh?” she raised her brow, amused by his having the nerve to actually ask something of _her_. “Pray say, my lord, what would that favour be?”

“That we do not part in bitterness.”

Éowyn blinked at him.

“What?”

Faramir spread his arms. “However much you may detest me now, I shall still tell you that I have, always, loved you – to the best of my limited ability, and respected you, and never have intended to cause you sorrow or humiliation with any of my actions. And aside from the wasted time, I do not believe much harm has come to you in this marriage. Moreover, I may assure you I shan’t hinder you from taking and keeping whatever you might wish—”

She shook her head, beginning to feel somewhat surreal. “ _What_ are you talking about?”

“I am saying,” Faramir replied patiently, “that I recognise the hurt I have caused you, and intend to do justice by you to the extent of my power, for which I hope you may one day come to respect me again. The very least I can do is clear you of all blame the unkind tongues might try to place on you – I assure you ’tis in my power to prevent your virtue and merit from being questioned. All shall know the separation has come through no fault on your behalf, and there shall be no encumbrance to your finding happiness in a new marriage.”

Only then in the course of the whole bizarre night did it occur to Éowyn to wonder is she was, in fact, asleep and dreaming.

“You...” her voice faltered, “you are letting me go?”


	9. Chapter 9

She gazed upon Faramir, and it was as though she saw him anew, as though the years of marriage habit and familiarity had just been polished clean off him. He was again how he had been before he became hers – at that point in time when it had still been possible that he would never come to be hers. It had been up to her then, to accept or deny him – and Éowyn had made that choice once and for all.

White and gold to black and silver – how fitting it had always felt, how complementary.

An idealist, a maximalist, a hothead – all that she was, but she was no fool. And not being a fool meant she had well learnt that however sweet, the immediate reward of catering to her hurt pride hardly served as a rosy long-term strategy. She had picked this man, perfect (as it had once seemed) or somewhat flawed (as it had eventually turned out), and she was not inclined to throw him away now – much less inclined to see him throw himself away.

Consider herself wronged as she did, naturally she did not mind if he were to pay for it, pay with shame, and remorse, even with fear that he had just stupidly lost her – but her gleeful desire to get back at him for his misdeeds had not actually gone beyond those rather harmless self-indulgencies. How could he take it so seriously? But then again, being the sort of man that he was, and having had the history that he did – how could he _not_ take it so seriously?

And indeed, to her puzzled question Faramir only shrugged, as though he had voiced not merely the most obvious but in fact the only possible solution.

“As a husband I am entitled to certain rights to you, my lady, that is true, but I do not own you in your entirety. And you know well enough I never keep even a servant against his will – much less would I a wife.”

In that suddenly she saw the answer, and the floor stopped rocking beneath her feet. There was no need to panic, she could simply reason him out of this.

“A servant you may dismiss, my lord, very true,” Éowyn agreed evenly, with dignity. “For such is the oath your servants pledge to you that you may give them leave. But much as your intent is very noble in theory, the bond that tied me to you – it is inseverable.”

A strangely sad, gentle smile touched Faramir’s lips. “You mean the law?” he said softly. “Oh, it can be arranged. There have, however few, been precedents – back in the age of the Kings, admittedly, but,” he grinned with a shadow of irony, “that sure only makes it the more relevant today. And, as I’ve said, I owe you this much, Éowyn – I shall take care of it.”

Her breath caught, and suddenly it burst forth, the fury she had been so looking forward to unleashing on him. The one thing she had always feared had finally befallen her – she was caged, caged by a man who knew no better, who could see no better.

“You...! _You!!_ ” She could not begin to find the words – perhaps she would have to reconsider her earlier resolution about not shouting or screaming. Perhaps she would have to hit him on the face, with a fist, to get it across.

Fair enough, he could not possibly know how much she had seen and learned, and likely he thought too highly of his princess wife to imagine her engaging in the sort of activity she had been engaging in – for all he knew she had glanced in and dropped her sword in disgust. And indeed, she may have overdone her act a bit. But where was she to go from here? Tell him, ‘no, I do not wish to leave you, I can absolve everything’? She, the proud Éowyn of Rohan? Since when had it become in her nature to lavish people with spontaneous out-of-place magnanimity?

***

The King, it must be noted, has been unduly forgotten.

Barely resisting the temptation to roll his eyes, Aragorn let out a slow pained sigh which did not, however, serve to gain him any attention.

What exactly had he expected, though? Faramir could be counted on to plough it miserably. A wonderful man as his steward was: a valiant warrior, a decisive ruler and a wise counsellor – not to mention his some more _private_ virtues – he had one inconceivably irritating trait. He absolutely, under no circumstances, could allow that a fault on his behalf would not result in the immediate destruction of all he held dear.

Add to it a quality that, albeit useful in other circumstances, never helped in situations of personal conflict. Too much backbone… He would not buck, nor did he know how to suck it up, or make light of things and steer the exchange to some safer waters, or simply ignore everything and let the other’s heat wear itself out. He would shut himself and meet each accusation with some strange stubbornness, as though actually deriving some twisted satisfaction from having the storm lash into his face. He could apologise, yes, but the manner he did it in somehow never failed to only feed his opponent’s fire.

Luckily for Faramir, in the whole state of Gondor there were not many who were graced with the right to test his resistance. As a matter of fact, there were only two, and he was currently in the presence of both.

This was, in fact, how it had all begun.


	10. Chapter 10

It had been one of those crowded counsels which Aragorn had come to secretly detest soon after receiving the crown – and most of all he loathed those with foreign ambassadors. His previous life-style had made him accustomed to doing things, not chatting about doing things over a goblet of expensive wine, and after what seemed like hours of pointless unproductive banter, of which there was one part negotiations and seven parts, again, banter, he had felt he would strangle, and gladly, the first who dared address him.

Faramir’s proposal may not have been the brightest to have ever been voiced in the tall marble halls, yet it had certainly not deserved the harsh unchecked word Aragorn had rewarded it with.

Never had he addressed his Steward in such tone, and highly creditable to Faramir, the young man had in no way betrayed to their venerable guests that aught was not as should be. He did not gasp, or blush, or stammer out an apology as many a certain member of the court would have done, nor did he argue or stare back in affected surprise as perhaps his brother would have done – and yet, in the fraction of a breath before he could entirely rule himself, a strange look had passed across his attentive noble face. A look of shock, embarrassment and deep, raw hurt – and also that of having something he had known all along finally confirmed; of having a hope, timid and private, brutally dashed. Once the meeting was over, he was very swift to leave, and Aragorn had not had the heart to chase him.

All afternoon the King had spent haunted by guilt and shame, unable to wipe off the sticky feeling of having done a thing petty and dishonourable, not too different from giving a loyal devoted hound a kick in the ribs. And although he knew he should have been more careful with Faramir, for nothing ever passed unnoticed or disregarded with Faramir, he could not help being irritated: was not the young man taking it, well, a little too close to heart?

When all the day’s tasks were done and the City was settling for the night, the King finally headed for the Steward’s chambers, intent on setting everything straight. He was not certain whether he should apologise, fearing that by doing so he might only offend Faramir further, for strictly speaking the matter did not warrant an apology, and acknowledging the degree of pain his retort had inflicted would effectively put Faramir’s emotional maturity in question. Eventually he settled on avoiding directly referring to the earlier occurrence, and instead at last saying aloud all he had thought was obvious beyond need to be voiced but which evidently was not: that he always had and for all he knew always would hold his Steward’s merits in the highest regard, and that as a man Faramir was dear to him like few had been dear, and that he would rather stab himself in the eye than see a crack appear in their friendship.

He was invited him into the dim reception room with a courteous bow, the other man perfectly unperturbed, as though having the King come visit him like this, at the dim hour when all the servants had been dismissed, was a most natural thing; and Aragorn, strangely flustered all of a sudden, had launched into his speech at once. He paced the floor as he spoke, and grew ever more flustered by the minute, and there was no response to his reasonable, carefully selected words – but when he turned to look Faramir in the face, he was met by _such_ a gaze… To this day the memory sent a thrill into his stomach.

In a rushing instant, as though a lightning bolt pierced the sky and illuminated it for him, he had understood _everything_ , why his careless reply had had the impact that it did, and why he himself had been so distressed by that, and why… His thoughts melted and became one hazy, liquid blur, and he forgot all his lines and started saying something altogether different, and then he was not saying anything at all, for his mouth was… well, busy with other things.

Never, before or after, had he known a night of such frenzied, desperate lovemaking, of fighting to cram a lifetime-worth of emotion into the few hours left before dawn, for both were confident in their dread that, come sunrise, this newfound bliss would dissolve into thin air like morning mist.

He could not remember how it was he had actually drifted away at long last, sated, and spent, and utterly delirious. He had not wanted to sleep, to give up but a single minute to dreams, however sweet those might be – but there must have been too much warmth, too much peace in how they lay wrapped around each other with every possible part of body, so close, so kin.

When he opened his eyes again, a new morning had come. He lay amid white linens, and next to him sat Faramir, staring ahead of himself with a stony gaze, elbows resting on knees, back curved – and still altogether without clothes, as though in the light of the recent disaster such a trivial matter as covering himself up was no longer of any import.

“Faramir,” Aragorn had called gently, and the man had turned to look at him. The sinews in his jaws went taut, and he swallowed with such difficulty as though he had been holding a needle in his mouth.

“Not to be inhospitable, but you should go, your majesty,” he said as a thing understood. “You shall be missed... at court – and elsewhere.”

“That does not sound as a return invitation,” Aragorn had observed with a smile, for the memory of their earlier joy was still high within him.

Faramir returned his gaze to the invisible point in the distance.

“I can make no such invitation,” he replied grimly, as though cutting the words in granite.

“And if you could?”

“What does it matter?!” Faramir clenched his fists, then pressed his hands to his face. “Oh, Valar...” he whispered, broken.

“No...” Aragorn whispered back. “No, don’t be like this. Here. Come to me.”

Through Faramir’s spread fingers he could see the man’s features contort. “Please,” Faramir said sternly, “leave.” He took a deep breath. “I am not being respectful, and I am well aware, but my plea for forgiveness, or whatever payment you should wish for, my lord, I shall make later. Now – please leave.”

“Or else what?” Aragorn inquired softly, lying back on the pillow.

“Or else I do not know...” Faramir was looking at him, with eyes wide, and clear, and utterly lost. “I...” he shook his head.

Aragorn sat up, surveyed him silently, then put his arm around the man’s naked shoulders and pulled him to himself.

“You have no pity on me,” Faramir said quietly, seriously, unresisting.

“Nay. But I know how to make it so that you would forget about wanting my pity,” Aragorn replied, taking Faramir on the face with one hand and stroking the man’s cheek with his thumb. “This need not come to woe, my boy.”

“I see not how it could come to aught else,” Faramir said quietly, closing his eyes as the King’s other hand began to caress, in wide sweeping motions, his shoulder and arm. “Forgetting – is it all that remains to one such as myself, a traitor to his own oaths?”

“I shall have no more of this morbid talk,” Aragorn had murmured against his throat, “this be no treason, reserve such harsh words for where they are deserved,” he reproached gently, with his lips searching for the first signs of stubble on the underside of Faramir’s chin.

Faramir’s strong fingers dug into his shoulders, pulling him away to put enough distance between them for a proper eye contact.

“Do you see it?” Faramir whispered, his gaze bright and burning. “Your blood is pure enough, my lord – can you see? Where shall this come? I... I cannot think of myself only when taking such steps – much as I have already taken them, so it seems...”

“Nor am I thinking of myself only,” Aragorn argued calmly. “I would not do this to either of us if there were no chance.”

And so it had not ended, although it was not always blissful, for Faramir turned out to possess a flair for effortlessly driving Aragorn insane with frustration. The younger man never seemed to be doing so on purpose – it arose from the plain fact that when he had a position on something, his belief never wavered, even though he of course always bowed down to his lord’s will or sweeter ways of persuasion. But it was actually convincing Faramir, not getting his obedience or compliance, that was always the King’s desire – and here Aragorn could wear himself raw listing arguments, appealing, pushing and even shouting. Faramir would remain unmoved, most often simply retreating into a hard-faced stubborn silence.

Just as on that first morning, all disagreements would be eventually resolved in bed – that is, of course, if the two of them actually managed to make it all the way to the bed. Whenever heat began to rise, Aragorn already knew what would follow within an hour at most – one of them felling the other onto the nearest at least remotely horizontal surface, upon which a session of brutal, ferocious, merciless sex would jubilantly ensue, leaving their bodies sore for days to come…

And that was all very well, but introducing such a practice to a third party would be a perilous and imprudent endeavour, whereby a more tactful – and tactical – approach was clearly called for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued...


End file.
